And so

Hexagram 58
THE IMAGE

Lakes resting one on the other:
The image of THE JOYOUS.
Thus the superior man joins with his friends
For discussion and practice.

Along came a spider

Little Miss Muffet got it all wrong.



The spider was just a happy little dude checking out the world.

Prostitute Mickey

Prostitute Mickey 1

OMFG...a part of me just died but I can't stop laughing. WTF?
And, as though I'm not already curled up in a ball weeping, I immediately watched

Prostitute Mickey 2

My tree

I spent most of the day in Ashland today, my old home town and place I raised my children. It rained and even the melancholy of the rain was comforting. After lunch with a friend, I got coffee at Bloomsbury Books and waited until it was time to pick up another friend and take him to Fight Night at my in-laws... pizza, cake, ice cream and boxing. It's a tradition, Fight Night.

My tree today

I also visited my tree today. To some degree I measure my life by this tree, or at least my life since that Easter Sunday some 25 years ago when I sat under it and and experienced a "moment of truth". My tree lives in Lithia Park and, at the time, was just big enough to sit under and shelter me from the passing world from which I felt so estranged. Ever since that day, and even though we moved to Nevada, I visit it occasionally to see how it's doing. At this point, it is one of my oldest friends.

Unfortunately, my tree stands at the edge of a playground so its early years were especially hard. Kids can be brutal to young trees, grabbing and breaking branches but, in spite of all that, it is a lucky tree. It also grows close to Lithia Creek and the sloping bank has, for the most part, protected it from the children. Otherwise, I think they would have mauled it to death by now or at least mutilated and dwarfed it.

For several years it looked so sickly I was afraid it would die. Perhaps it took awhile for the roots to reach the creek. And one year I discovered that the top of its trunk had somehow broken over and died. It hung down black and bare into the lower branches. That was a desperate time. I was afraid the gardeners might cut the tree down but, like I said, it is a very lucky tree. Instead they have pruned it back to health. These days, it is looking really good, even with the new forked top. It seems shorter and bushier than normal but it is still growing upward. That's the important thing. Today I saw that the gardeners have pruned away some of its lower branches, the ones facing the playground. I am guessing that is so people can more easily sit in its shelter. It is a very accommodating tree.

Lithia Park's official photo

(That's my tree on the left peeking through
the autumn leaves from the other side of the bridge.)

And my tree was there when I released the remains of my uncle, John Chance, into the snow melt rage of Lithia Creek. The shocking wild flash of ashes turned the creek suddenly white, lingered a moment in the flow as though they didn't want to go, then vanished. My tree holds the memory for me. It's what friends do.

From Beatitude Magazine

Midnight notes along the way

Blue lantern on San Pablo Ave.

After the memorial last Sunday we stayed in the Bay Area a couple more days so Monday night I read poetry at an open mic in Berkeley. It's a weekly event hosted by Poetry Express at the Priya restaurant. I read there last spring. They are a good bunch of friendly, open-minded dedicated writers and it was nice to be back even though I didn't talk to anyone, just read and when it was over, left. I dedicated my reading to Philip. We're in Oregon now. We were going to return to Nevada in the morning but a new storm changed our plans. Looks like we'll be here until at least Sunday.

Philip John Chance, RIP

He died on Halloween and his memorial was on a blue moon and that seems about right.

source

We went to my cousin Philip's memorial in Lafayette today. He was recuperating from a cycling accident in August then died from a blunt force trauma to the head in the nursing home. He was 53. Police are investigating.

The program from the memorial reads...

"Thank you for coming to remember Philip, the good, the living on the edge, and that he had the courage to even survive as long as he did. We ask that you awaken and practice moments of kindness."

He was brilliant, alcoholic, often homeless (unless you accept the fact that the forest was his home) and apparently lost (unless you accept that he followed his drummer through the Arizona mountains for last 30 years of his life on his bicycle because wanting to and having to were the same thing). I just don't believe it has to cost you your life.

When words slip away

In the course of dying from a rare affliction which will first rob him of language, art critic and artist Tom Lubbock recently published excerpts from his memoir of the experience in the Guardian. It is well worth reading and, especially, I think, if you are a writer. Over the course of his disease he reverts to pure poetry, the first and last link, the voice of the soul.

Postscript:
Tom Lubbock died 9 January 2011. His obituary was published in the Guardian UK. If you do nothing else, read the end, Tom's final words.